


Hang on Through the Night

by synchronysymphony



Series: Keep Me in the Light [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (it's mentioned), Drinking, Everybody Cries, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I guess you could read it as shippy, Lots of Crying, Panic Attacks, if you want you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7122265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronysymphony/pseuds/synchronysymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has anxiety, and Courfeyrac is a good friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang on Through the Night

**Author's Note:**

> In Enjolras's description in the book, Hugo says he's prone to moments of pallor. This is one of them.

Enjolras disappears sometimes. 

He just does. Courfeyrac and all his friends have grown to accept it, and even though it’s still a little disheartening when he gets up and leaves the room with barely any warning, it’s something they’ve all gotten used to.

Sometimes, it happens when the mood is particularly tense; often when he’s arguing with Grantaire, or Marius says something particularly myopic, or when someone is trying to wind him up, he’ll turn colors and clench his jaw and sweep out of the room without a backwards glance. Sometimes, too, if there’s an awkward situation, he’ll murmur an excuse and run away. And sometimes, it happens for no real reason at all– everything will be fine, and everyone will be laughing and talking and having a good time– and then someone will look around and realize that he’s disappeared. It happens in public, in private, and everywhere in between, any place their friends hang out, it’s almost guaranteed that Enjolras has pulled a vanishing act there. 

Everyone talks about it sometimes, speculating about the reasons for this behavior. Joly thinks it’s medical– maybe Enjolras has some kind of condition that he’s not telling anyone about, and because of this, he has to run off and leave without warning. Cosette, bless her, doesn’t want to make assumptions, saying that it’s his business what he chooses to do, and if he wants to tell everyone someday, they’ll all listen. But the others have come to a semi-consensus that Enjolras, while a beloved friend and an absolute sweetheart (most of the time), is bad at controlling his emotions, and stomps off to pout more often than a baby Republican. Courfeyrac isn’t sure if he agrees with this analysis, but it seems to be the only reasonable explanation, so for the most part, he accepts it.

—

It’s Friday night, and everyone’s gathered in Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras’s apartment to blow off some steam after a long week. It’s the first time in awhile that they’ve all hung out like this, so everyone’s excited, and the room is fairly buzzing. For once, Enjolras hasn’t run off, and he’s wearing a cute little half-smile as he listens to Jehan chatter away. He’s a little quieter and more subdued than usual, but at least he seems content. Courfeyrac is almost happier about this than he is with his own conversation. Enjolras is one of his best friends, and he loves him dearly, but the boy really needs to loosen up every once in awhile. 

The initial buzz of the evening wears off, and everyone begins to settle down on the floor around the couch, still immersed in their various conversations. Courfeyrac is so busy laughing at a ridiculous story of Bossuet’s that he misses the first sparks of the argument next to him until it’s too late. He should have known this would happen, though. Why hadn’t he been paying better attention? It seems like whenever he turns his back, Enjolras and Grantaire are at each other’s throats. 

This time, they’ve sat down only a few inches from each other, and they’re hissing at each other like angry cats. Their discussion may have started off friendly enough– who knows– but now, even just their expressions are enough to raise the hair on Courfeyrac’s neck. 

“I can’t understand you,” Enjolras is saying. “You’re not capable of believing in anything! How can you live with yourself, being such a nihilist?”

“I’d rather be a nihilist than a naive little over-privileged princess,” Grantaire snarls back. “You just think everything’s so great because everything’s been handed to you on a silver platter. Why don’t you come to reality and see how much belief you have then?”

“This is reality. You’re the one who’s ignoring it!”

“Oh yeah?” Grantaire reaches out and jabs Enjolras in the shoulder with an ink-stained finger. “You know what, pretty boy? I’m done trying to convince you. Just stop. I don’t think any of us wants to put up with your ranting anymore.”

Enjolras turns red, then sugar-white. He flicks his hair out of his eyes, puts his chin up as if pulled by a string, then stands up and stalks away to the room that he shares with Courfeyrac. As a unit, everyone looks at Grantaire and groans.

“Did you have to?”

Grantaire shrugs, unperturbed. “He started it.”

Courfeyrac will have to have a talk with him about this later, he really will, but right now Jehan is pulling out one of their weird board games, and everyone’s getting into position to play and Joly is pouring out shots, and he thinks for now, it might be okay to let fun come first. 

—

Several drinks later, Courfeyrac is rushing to his room to find a towel for Marius, who’s managed to throw up all over himself after taking one too many shots of Joly’s special vodka. The light is on, so he figures Enjolras isn’t asleep (honestly, that would be a new level of ridiculous even for him– it’s barely midnight), and he doesn’t hesitate before opening the door and barging in.

“Stop pouting and help me look for one of our party towels,” he calls. “Marius is a disgusting human being, and– hmm?”

At first, it appears that he’s talking to an empty room. Enjolras isn’t at his desk, or curled up on his bed, or even perched on the hideous floral-print divan that Jehan insisted they adopt. Courfeyrac is horribly confused for all of three seconds until he happens to glance under his own desk, and sees Enjolras huddled up beneath it, arms drawn tight around his legs, and head bent down on his knees. This doesn’t seem very comfortable, even for a tiny skin-and-bones nineteen-year-old, and Courfeyrac can’t help but be curious.

“Enjolras,” he calls coaxingly, as if beckoning a shy kitten. “What are you doing under there? Do you want to come out and– ”

Enjolras’s head whips up. His eyes are red and shiny, but more importantly, they’re _terrified_. Courfeyrac isn’t sure when he’s seen anyone look this blatantly afraid. It catches him a bit off guard, really, since none of this is what he expected. Although he normally considers himself to be pretty good in situations like these, right now all his powers of speech seem to have flown away, and he ends up fumbling on his words. Enjolras seems to mistake his confusion for judgement, and shrinks back into himself. 

“Don’t– please… Courfeyrac, don’t hate me, please don’t hate me, I’m sorry. Please don’t– I’m fine now, I’ll just go, I…” 

He seems to want to say more, but by now he’s crying and hyperventilating too badly to speak. Courfeyrac crosses the room in one leap and kneels down in front of him. 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, sweetie. I don’t hate you. I promise. Can you breathe for me? Come on, in and out. That’s right.”

Enjolras takes a couple shuddering breaths before he shakes apart again, twisting his hands in his hair and tugging on it. “I can’t do it. I can’t… Courfeyrac, do you hate me? Just tell me, do you hate me?”

“No, I don’t hate you.” Courfeyrac takes Enjolras’s hands and tries to work them out of his hair. It’s hard– he’s really hanging on. “Come on, ease up, you’re going to hurt yourself. That’s right. Can you come out from under there? I want to help, but I can’t fit.”

Enjolras tries to settle into a kneeling position so he can crawl out, but his legs lock up, whether because they’re asleep, or because he’s just too far gone to control his movements. “I can’t, I can’t move. Courfeyrac, I can’t…” 

“Here.” Courfeyrac crawls closer and reaches under the desk to draw Enjolras out. It’s an awkward position, and he thanks his lucky stars that no one else is in the room because his ass is waving around in a decidedly un-sexy way, but Enjolras barely weighs anything, and it’s not as hard as it should be to maneuver him out from under the desk and carry him over to his bed. Courfeyrac sets him down, then settles in next to him and holds him tight. He’s shaking, hard, and his breath is coming in little gasps. 

“Do you hate me?” he asks again, barely able to get the words out between his tight, anguished breaths. “I won’t be upset. I hate me too. Please tell me. Courfeyrac? Do you hate me?”

Courfeyrac frowns. Where is all this coming from? “Of course I don’t hate you. Why on earth would you think that?”

It’s meant to be a rhetorical question, but Enjolras obviously doesn’t take it as one. “I hate me,” he says. “I hate me so much. I’m so annoying and rude and boring and I’m not good at talking to people, and I hate how I look and how I dress and how I always say the wrong thing, and I always get into fights that I don’t want to get into, and I hate it and I hate myself. I can’t even– ” 

Here, he stops to take a few shuddering breaths. Courfeyrac feels like he should cut in, interrupt this tirade before it goes too far, but he still can’t figure out how to form words. Before he can get his mouth to work, Enjolras has jumped right in again.

“I can’t– I always run away when we’re all hanging out, you know, and it’s because I can’t take it anymore, but no one knows that and I can’t tell them, and they must all think I hate them. And I don’t, I don’t hate anyone except myself. But everyone just sees me as this awful person, and I am an awful person, but not for the reason they think. I’m not trying to be… I’m not… You know, and I hate how I can’t talk to anyone. You can talk to people. You even talk to me. And I know you must hate it, because I’m boring and annoying and I talk about my interests too much, but you’re always nice to me, even though you hate me. Why do you let me stay? Why does anyone let me stay?”

By this point, there are tears running down his face, but he makes no effort to wipe them away. He’s trembling so hard that Courfeyrac feels the vibration shaking through both of them, even through the soft fabric of the comforter they’re sitting on. Courfeyrac wants to tell him to breathe, but he doesn’t want to interrupt, so he just cuddles him closer and waits for him to finish talking.

“I hate it! I hate that I look like this, and act like this, and I hate my voice and my personality and how I’m not enough and I’ll never be enough. I’m not good, I can’t be good, and I want to more than anything, but I’m too weak. I hate myself so much, Courfeyrac. Do you all hate me too? Why do you keep me around? Why do I stay with you, when I know you’d all be better off without me? Why do I keep trying? I can’t– it’s too much– it’s too– ”

He wants to go on, Courfeyrac can tell, but he’s crying too hard, and he can’t seem to catch his breath, so he cuts off in the middle of his sentence, doubled over and gasping for air. Courfeyrac finds himself terrified too, not because he’s never seen anyone have a panic attack before, but because this is _Enjolras_ , and before this moment, he’s barely showed even a hint of weakness. How can he even begin to comprehend these depths of pain, let along make anything better?

It’s at this moment of indecision that the bedroom door flies open, and Joly comes prancing in.

“Courfeyrac,” he trills. “What are you doing~?”

Courfeyrac gestures at him frantically, pointing at the little blond bundle in his arms, and Joly freezes on the threshold, eyes wide. 

“Oh, shit– ”

“Go!”

Joly nods quickly and fairly runs back to the living room, fortunately closing the door on his way out. Knowing him, he’s probably going to blurt everything to the others out of pure concern, which probably isn’t the best idea given the circumstances, but there’s nothing Courfeyrac can do to stop him, so they might as well let it be. Besides, no matter what Enjolras thinks, it might be good for his friends to know about this. There’s no way they’ll react with anything but sympathy and love. 

Meanwhile, Enjolras has gone as still as his trembling body will allow. His heart is going a mile a minute, though; Courfeyrac can feel it racing against his own ribcage. 

“Joly hates me,” he whispers. 

If he wasn’t so worried, Courfeyrac would want to shake him. “Sweetie, Joly doesn’t hate anybody.”

“He hates me, though. Everyone hates me.”

“Okay. Why do they hate you?”

“Because I’m ugly and annoying and not good enough, and they know– you know– that I’m worthless, and I’m so terrible sometimes, so who wouldn’t hate me? I do. I hate myself so much I can’t stand it. I can’t do it anymore, I can’t keep trying, I just. I can’t.”

There’s a lump in Courfeyrac’s throat now, but he tries to swallow it down and speak past it. “I’m so sorry you feel like this,” he says. “And I’m so sorry you’ve been bottling it up like this for so long. I’m glad you told me this, okay? I always want to know how you’re feeling. And I’m not saying that what you’re feeling isn’t valid, because it is, but I want you to know that I don’t hate you, and neither does anyone else. We don’t think you’re worthless or terrible, or anything like that, and we always want you around. Okay?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “You’re just saying that. You couldn’t, not me.”

“We could. We do.” Courfeyrac gently wipes the tears from Enjolras’s face with the sleeve of his flannel, and tucks the wispy strands of hair back behind his ears. “I promise, we’re all knowledgeable individuals, and we’re fully capable of making up our own minds. We want to be in your life because we think you’re wonderful. You’re good, okay? You’re more than good enough.”

“Then why can’t I feel it?” Enjolras paws at Courfeyrac’s shirt as if seeking grounding. Courfeyrac wraps his arms around him again, steadying him, and he relaxes just enough to be an encouraging sign, although he hasn’t stopped shaking, and his breath is still labored. “It hurts so much,” he mumbles. “I can’t take it. I feel like I can’t stand to be alive for one more second.”

 _Fuck_. Courfeyrac is officially out of his depth. He wants to run and get someone, anyone, but he has a feeling that if he does, he’ll just be making everything worse, and besides, there’s an irrational part of him that doesn’t want to leave Enjolras alone for even a second, especially now that he’s heard this. He doesn’t think Enjolras will do anything, not really, but he knows he doesn’t want to leave him by himself in this state. 

“Okay,” he says. “I know it’s hard, but I’m here. What can I do to help?”

Enjolras says something, but it’s so quiet and muffled that nothing comes through except bits and pieces and “don’t go” and “please” and “I’m sorry.” This is enough, though, so Courfeyrac cuddles him and strokes his hair and kisses his forehead and does everything he can to make his presence real and felt. 

“I’ll stay with you as long as you need,” he says. “Promise. I won’t leave you.”

He’s not sure what else to do. Briefly, he considers trying to provide distraction, queuing up something on Netflix, telling a funny story, anything, but he quickly rejects this, reasoning that this will only make Enjolras feel invalidated. The poor thing is so upset right now that it seems best to deal with the problem to the extent that it’s possible, especially because he hasn’t voiced this before, and it would be cruel to cut him off just when he’s managed to put this vulnerable part of himself out there. He ruffles Enjolras’s hair, humming with indecision. What should he try now?

Enjolras solves this problem himself. He lifts his head just enough so that his voice will be audible, and speaks in a tiny, quavering voice.

“Will you talk to me? I’m not– I don’t feel real.”

Courfeyrac’s heart twinges in sympathetic pain. He lays one more kiss on Enjolras’s hairline, grounding him, and speaks before he really knows what’s going to come out. 

“You’re real,” he says. “You’re real, baby. I promise. You’re here, I’m here, and we’re both going to be okay. I know you feel awful, and it’s okay that you do, I’m not trying to change how you feel, but things won’t be this way forever. You’ve gotten through so much, and you’re going to get through this, too. I have so much faith in you.”

Enjolras hiccups. It’s kind of an adorable sound. “Why? How can you say that? You know how awful I am, how useless I am for doing anything right. I don’t deserve your faith.”

“You do. You prove it to me every day. All of us can see how wonderful you are, and we all believe in you, because it’s so easy to see in so many different ways.”

Enjolras stirs, and it seems like he wants to argue, so Courfeyrac continues quickly before he can get a word of protest in.

“You’re brilliant. I know, because you make connections that no one else can, and anyone who talks to you can see how clear and beautiful your mind is. You work harder than anyone I know, even Combeferre, and you don’t stop until you get what you want. You’re determined, and you’ll never stop fighting for what’s right. You do so much; I can see it in the way you copy your notes for Marius when he forgets to take his own, and how you lend your sweaters to Joly even though you get cold more easily than he does, and how you stay up late to edit our papers because no one’s better at writing than you, and how you try making comfort food for anyone who’s sad because you know what it’s like not to eat, even though you can’t really make anything more complicated than coffee, and how you’re kind to everyone you meet, no matter who or where they are. You do all this, not because you expect thanks, but because you want to make the world a better place. And you do. You make it better just by being here. No matter what you do, or don’t do, you’re good. You’re so good. And you always will be, okay? Your worth doesn’t depend on what you accomplish, so even if you feel like you didn’t accomplish anything at all, it’s still okay. You’re good, and I’ll tell you every day if you want, because I love you, and I want you to know that– let me say it again– you’re good.” 

Enjolras goes still. For a minute, Courfeyrac isn’t sure if he’s gone too far, especially because Enjolras isn’t saying anything, so he doesn’t speak either, letting the silence hang in the air between them. Finally, Enjolras tugs on his shirt.

“Thank you.”

His voice is shaky and weak, but he’s not really crying anymore, and he seems to be breathing better. Courfeyrac knows he’s not out of the woods yet; maybe he’s not panicking as much now, but he’s undoubtedly still going through some heavy emotional turmoil. At least, though, this is a start. 

“What do you need?” he asks. 

It seems like it should be a simple enough question, but Enjolras whimpers in distress. “I don’t know. Why don’t I know?”

“Don’t worry,” Courfeyrac says quickly. “It’s okay not to know. Just– let’s see. What do you usually do when you’re upset?”

“Umm.” Enjolras shakes his head. “Cry, I guess. And panic. Sleep when I can. I hurt myself a lot, too. I’ve never had anyone with me before.”

Courfeyrac has nearly cried half a dozen times already, and he’s managed to contain himself because this is _not_ about him, but he’s an emotional person, and this latest bit of information is the last straw. He presses his face into Enjolras’s hair, hoping it will muffle the noise of his weeping, but of course he has no such luck. Enjolras pulls away and looks up at him, eyes round with horror.

“Courfeyrac, are you…? What did I do? What’s wrong?”

Courfeyrac wants to reassure him, tell him to focus on himself, but the words won’t come. Embarrassingly, he’s completely speechless, choking on his own tears. Enjolras makes little worried sounds and pats him, obviously doing his best to provide what comfort he can, but now he’s crying again too, and neither of them are able to sufficiently articulate what they’re trying to say. Every time Courfeyrac thinks he’s about to calm down, another image pops into his head of Enjolras, alone and in pain, abandoned by everyone who claims to be his friend, and he sets off again in a fresh wave of sobs. He wants more than anything to stop; he knows he’s scaring Enjolras, and that’s the last thing either of them needs right now, but he seems to be physically incapable of speaking. Knowing that it’s the best he can do for now, he clasps his arms around Enjolras and holds him tight, hoping to transmit some of his emotions this way.

Bahorel finds them a little later, clinging to each other like drowning men. He gives no warning before bursting into the bedroom, a little quieter than usual, true, but for him, that’s not saying much.

“What’s up?” he shouts– speaks, really, but his voice is raucous enough even at its softest registers. “You guys’ve been in here a hella long time. You’re not fucking, right?”

Courfeyrac can’t even find it in himself to make a sarcastic comment. This, more than anything, shows how far gone he is. Bahorel notices this, frowns, and comes crashing over to the bed to sit down beside them.

“What’s this? Courf, you okay, man?” Before Courfeyrac can figure out how to mediate the situation, Bahorel rounds on Enjolras and grabs at him. He could probably break Enjolras’s arm just by squeezing it, but fortunately, he doesn’t. “What the hell did you do?”

“I, I– ” stammers Enjolras. He’s ghost-pale and shaking like a leaf, and he’s never looked smaller. Bahorel’s bicep is almost the size of his head. 

“Did you make him cry? Huh?”

“I don’t know, I– ”

“Got tired of throwing tantrums by yourself, had to drag someone else down with you?” Bahorel shakes Enjolras back and forth. It’s probably not particularly forceful, but even so, his whole body jolts like he’s made of rubber. “Thought you’d pull him into this just because he’s nice?”

“I-I’m sorry– ”

“That’s not enough!”

Enjolras stares at him, slack-jawed with fear. Courfeyrac thought he’d seen him scared before, but this is on a whole other level. He gasps out something that might be an attempt at speech or might just be incoherent sounds because he’s too frightened to use his words properly. Bahorel frowns in confusion and loosens his grip, and Enjolras takes this opportunity to twist away, hop off the bed, and run out of the room as fast as his still-trembling legs can carry him. Courfeyrac doesn’t hesitate to follow. He can always explain to Bahorel later. 

Courfeyrac gets to the living room almost as Enjolras does, just in time to watch him catch sight of his assembled friends, turn an alarming milky shade, and make a short-lived dash for the door. He doesn’t even make it halfway; Combeferre comes over and stands in front of him, and he stops immediately, intimidated.

“Where are you going?”

Enjolras stares at him in wild-eyed panic. “Let– let me go…” 

It’s at this moment that Bahorel comes ambling out of the bedroom to see what all the fuss is about. Enjolras makes a high, choked sound in his throat and redoubles his efforts to sidle to the door (impossible, because he seems to be too scared to get within a foot of Combeferre). 

“Please let me go,” he pleads. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry– I’ll… please just let me go?”

“No way.” 

“I won’t bother you, I’ll just go– ”

Combeferre frowns and makes the mistake of reaching out to clasp Enjolras by the shoulder. Immediately, Enjolras flinches away, one hand drawn up as if to protect his face. 

“Please don’t hurt me!”

Everyone goes quiet. Enjolras, maybe realizing what he’s said, freezes in place, looking at Combeferre with wide eyes. 

“S-sorry?” he tries.

Combeferre holds both hands out, placating. “I’m not going to hurt you. No one else will, either. You’re safe, okay?”

Enjolras blinks at him slowly, as if coming back to his senses. Then he nods, carefully deliberate, and inches forward again. “I can leave…?”

“And go where?”

“I’ll find somewhere.”

“It’s the middle of the night!” Combeferre looks helplessly at Courfeyrac. “He should stay here, right?”

“Obviously.” Courfeyrac comes over to Enjolras, counting it as a success when he doesn’t run away. “Combeferre is right,” he says. “It’s late, and you shouldn’t feel like you have to leave your own house. Can you come sit on the couch with me? I won’t touch you if you don’t want.”

“No, it’s okay. I just got scared.” Enjolras looks up hesitantly at Combeferre. “Are you mad?”

“Of course not.” Now encouraged, Combeferre takes a step towards Enjolras, and seeing no resistance, wraps him up in a hug. “It’s okay,” he says. “I know you’re having a bad time, but we’re here for you, and we’re not going to judge you for it. And we’re not going to chase you away, either. Now, come on. Let’s get you more comfortable.”

He and Courfeyrac maneuver Enjolras onto the couch (which their friends have precipitately vacated) and settle him down between them, curling around him protectively. Enjolras is stiff and uncomfortable at first, as if he’s not sure it’s okay for him to be here, but after a bit, he melts against them and rests his head against Courfeyrac’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he says. Courfeyrac smiles at how cute this is, and he’s about to reply when Enjolras continues on. “You don’t have to force yourselves to do this, though. Whenever you get tired of me being here, you can tell me to go away, and I will. I don’t mind.”

“What? Why would we ever do that?”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, because I really really do, but I know you guys don’t like to touch me, which I definitely understand because I wouldn’t want to either, so I feel a little guilty making you do this. So really, you could tell me to leave now, and I will.”

“You think we don’t like to touch you? Why– ”

“Actually, maybe I should leave now. This is too nice for me.”

Enjolras attempts to clamber up off the couch, but Combeferre holds him back. “Sit down, you.”

Enjolras does, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “You shouldn’t have to force yourselves,” he mutters.

“Why do you think we’re forcing ourselves?” Combeferre wants to know. “Don’t you think we want to help you as much as we can?”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Okay, what?” Combeferre looks floored. He raises his eyebrows at Courfeyrac, like _can you believe this?_ Courfeyrac just nods grimly back at him. He believes it now.

“You guys are trying so hard because you’re good people,” says Enjolras, not seeming to notice Combeferre’s shock. “You’re all really nice, so you want to help everyone, even me. But it’s okay. And it’s okay if you hate me, too. I never want to be a burden, so please…”

“What?”

Now Combeferre looks angry. Not at Enjolras, of course, but Enjolras probably doesn’t know this, so Courfeyrac still wants to tell him to tone it down. He tries to think of the best way to express himself without making anyone more upset than they have to be, but after a minute, he realizes his worry is unfounded. Enjolras hasn’t noticed anything.

“Really, I’m telling you. I understand why you would hate me, because I hate me more than anything, so it’s okay. And I don’t want to bring you down, or force my presence on you, or make you have to take care of me when you don’t want to. You’re too important! I should leave, really. This is too nice, and I don’t deserve it.”

Combeferre exhales slowly. It looks like he’s trying very hard to keep his emotions in check. “Okay. Why do you say you don’t deserve it?”

Courfeyrac wants to warn him not to ask this question, but it’s too late. Enjolras is already going off, telling Combeferre everything he’d told Courfeyrac before, about how he’s ugly and annoying and unloveable and weird. He doesn’t seem to notice that all his friends are still in the room, listening in wide-eyed astonishment.

“And I really just can’t stand anything about myself,” he finishes, surprising dispassionately, though there’s a suspicious quaver in the back of his voice. “I can’t think of a single redeeming quality that would make it okay for me to be here.”

“Here, as in…?”

“Here. With you. Or alive. Either way.”

“Oh no.”

Combeferre looks _really_ unhappy now. He also looks like he has no idea what to do. Courfeyrac doesn’t blame him; he’s totally lost right now too. He knows one of them has to say something, because the longer they stay quiet, the more convinced Enjolras is going to be that they really do hate him, but he can’t think of anything to say that he hasn’t said before, or that would even be believable. 

In the end, it’s Cosette who comes to the rescue. She gets up quietly and comes over to crouch down in front of the couch. There’s an air of calm assurance to her, but she’s not at all threatening, so Enjolras doesn’t shrink away. Courfeyrac thinks she must be amazing at talking to stray cats.

“Hi, sweetie pie,” she says. Enjolras mumbles something at her, though what it could be, Courfeyrac has no idea. “Can I touch you?” she continues, and Enjolras nods, so she takes his hand and strokes it softly. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Always. I mean– I don’t remember when I didn’t.” 

“And anxiety attacks like this, they happen…?”

“A lot. It depends, but sometimes it’s every day.”

“Wait,” Grantaire breaks in. His face is flushed, though whether it’s from alcohol or emotion, Courfeyrac couldn’t say. “So, every time you run away when we’re hanging out… that’s this? That’s the reason?”

Enjolras looks at him, apprehensive. “Ye-es?”

“That’s some bullshit.”

Enjolras flinches. Combeferre presses close to him and puffs himself up defensively like he’s ready to fight.

“Say that again?”

“It’s bullshit.” Grantaire points at Enjolras, who’s now staring at him, too scared to look away. “Don’t you know how much everyone cares about you? The rest of us get to have mental health problems; why the hell should you be any different?” 

“Everyone, everyone hates me,” stutters Enjolras. “I don’t want to be a bother…”

“You’re not a fucking bother! You’re– fuck, we love you, okay? I love you. Shit, I’d probably die for you. Why can’t you realize that?”

“I’m not– I mean– ”

“That’s enough, R. You’re scaring him.” Jehan comes wafting over and sits down beside Cosette. They lean their head against the couch and look up, all doe-eyes and gentleness. “Tone aside, though, he does have a point. We love you so much, my dear. I’m sorry that we ever gave you reason to doubt it.”

This is a new development. Enjolras looks from face to face, totally confused. “You… what?”

“We love you,” repeats Jehan. “And we’re sorry that you thought otherwise. Aren’t we?” They glare at each of their friends in turn, starting with Courfeyrac (which Courfeyrac thinks is a bit unfair) and ending with Marius. The look they give Bahorel is so toxic that Courfeyrac can’t help but wonder if they know what went down in the bedroom.

“Of course we are,” says Joly immediately. “Enjolras, I should have known something was up from the very beginning. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it.”

“You did realize it, though,” points out Courfeyrac, determined to be fair. “You were the one who kept telling us not to jump to conclusions.”

“Yeah, but so did Cosette.”

“Fine, both of you were right. Happy?”

Enjolras tugs on his sleeve. “What conclusions?”

Oh no. Courfeyrac really doesn’t want to explain this part. Why does Enjolras have to be so damn curious, even at his most miserable? He looks at the others, but they all shake their heads _no_. Whether that means that they don’t want to provide the answer themselves, or that they’re warning him not to give it at all, he doesn’t know, but clearly, they’re all letting themselves out of it. 

All of them, that is, except Marius. Courfeyrac has to hand it to him, he isn’t afraid to step up. He coughs awkwardly, and speaks.

“We all thought you were some kind of congenital asshole who couldn’t handle normal social interactions. Sorry.”

There’s a brief silence following this pronouncement. Everyone looks at the floor or around the room, steadfastly avoiding each others’ gaze. Finally, Courfeyrac braves a glance at Enjolras, who’s gone completely still in his arms. 

“Are you okay?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply. He works his way out of Courfeyrac’s embrace, climbs off the sofa, and sits down on the floor, all hunched in on himself like he’s trying hard not to touch anyone by accident. When he speaks, his voice is small.

“You hate me?”

“Enjolras…”

“No, it’s okay. I mean… I understand.”

“We don’t hate you,” says Marius, eager to undo the damage he’s caused. Then, looking around at his friends, “Do we?”

No one dignifies this with a response. It seems like Enjolras is about to say something, but before he can, Grantaire comes over to him and wordlessly sweeps him up into the tightest hug imaginable. He holds on for a solid minute, one hand drawing gentle circles on his back and the other buried in the hair at the nape of his neck. When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. He cups Enjolras’s face in his hands and rests their heads together, looking right into his eyes.

“We don’t hate you.”

Enjolras is crying again, but it’s softer this time. He clings to Grantaire’s shirt, all traces of hesitation gone.

“You– don’t hate me.”

“No. We really don’t.”

Enjolras goes in for another hug, and Grantaire is happy to let him. They stay fused together for awhile longer while everyone else shuffles around awkwardly trying to decide what to do. It’s sweet that Enjolras is getting the validation he needs, especially from the one person who’s most difficult for him to deal with, but it’s such a close scene, and it feels like everyone else has been relegated to the background.

In the end, Combeferre gets off the couch and disappears down the hallway, only to come back with an enormous pile of blankets and pillows. Courfeyrac had no idea there was even that much bedding in the apartment. 

“Here,” he says. “We can all sleep on the floor together.”

“On the floor?” Joly wrinkles his nose in mock-protest. They’ve had sleepovers like this more times than Courfeyrac can count, and Joly complains each time. Musichetta lobs a pillow at him.

“Don’t worry, you can sleep on me.”

“And me,” adds Bossuet. Joly looks much happier now.

“I always said floor sleepovers were a great idea.”

Courfeyrac helps Combeferre lay out the blankets and pillows. He tries to distribute everything evenly, but he does make sure to create a fluffy, comfortable nest in the middle, so Enjolras can sleep there, surrounded by love. Everyone’s starting to settle in by the time he’s done, cuddling up together like a pile of ducklings. It’s a testament to how close they all are that no one even thinks about taking the couch.

Everyone has just about laid themselves down for the night, when Enjolras stands up and starts to totter out of the room. Courfeyrac leaps up immediately.

“Enjolras, where are you going? What’s wrong?”

“Oh.” Enjolras blinks at him, realization dawning on his face. “I was just going to brush my teeth. Sorry if you thought– ”

“Don’t be sorry,” says Courfeyrac automatically. “Do you want me to go with you?”

Enjolras flushes and pouts his lower lip. “Courfeyrac, I’m not a child!”

Their friends laugh, but Courfeyrac goes with him anyway. He feels oddly clingy, like Enjolras will disappear if he lets him out of his sight. It’s irrational, he knows, but he wants to make up for all the times they’ve been apart because Enjolras felt too frightened and unwelcome to stay. 

It doesn’t take them long to get ready for bed. Usually, Courfeyrac has an extensive skin care routine that he goes through each night, but he decides to skip it now, reasoning that one night off won’t hurt him too much. Instead, he fetches a brush and combs Enjolras’s hair for him, something he hasn’t done in a long time. He’s rewarded when Enjolras gives him a small, soft smile. 

“Thank you, Courf.”

It’s official– Courfeyrac is going to do this much more often. He drops a sweet kiss on the top of Enjolras’s shining blond head. 

“Ready to go to sleep now?”

Enjolras nods, so Courfeyrac takes him by the hand and leads him back out to the living room, where their friends are lying in various positions of repose on the floor. Marius, early bird that he is, is already knocked out, and poor Feuilly is snoozing on Bahorel’s chest, exhausted from another backbreaking day of work. Some of the others are still awake, though; Jehan is lying with their head on Eponine’s lap, reading quietly to her from their ever-present volume of poetry, and Combeferre and Grantaire are staring at each other rather awkwardly across a space that they’ve left between them in the middle of the floor-bed. They both look relieved when Courfeyrac and Enjolras crawl in between them and settle down. 

At first, Courfeyrac isn’t sure that Enjolras will be comfortable with this much contact, since they’re all _very_ close to each other now and it might be too much, but he soon realizes he needn’t have worried. Enjolras calmly spoons himself into Grantaire’s arms, lays his head on Courfeyrac’s chest, and curls up to go to sleep. He’s like an adorable little kitty; Courfeyrac can’t help petting him and crooning a couple measures of the song that he hums to his parents’ cats whenever he visits home.

They all lie quietly for a bit, content just to rest safe and warm in each others’ presence. Courfeyrac thinks Enjolras might be asleep, because even if he weren’t tired out from crying all night, he sleeps so little in general that he usually drifts off immediately any time someone convinces him to lie down. But after a little bit, he speaks in a soft, somewhat dopey voice.

“I don’t know if you know, but I love you all, too.”

Courfeyrac wonders if Enjolras can hear his heart speed up. There’s something so _precious_ about him, and the shy pronouncement he just made. 

“We know,” he says. “You’re good at showing us.”

“I wish we were just as good at showing you,” mumbles Grantaire against the back of Enjolras’s head. Enjolras hums in disapproval.

“You are good. You did all this.”

“What, made you panic so badly that we couldn’t just ignore your problems anymore? I don’t think that’s worthy of any praise.”

“Grantaire.” Combeferre’s voice holds an audible warning. His meaning is clear– they should continue this discussion some other time, when Enjolras is feeling less vulnerable, and everyone else has  more or less dealt with their guilt. Grantaire catches the message and quiets down with a sort of rumbling sound.

“Sorry,” he says. “Go to sleep, Enjolras. We’ll stay with you.”

“Really?”

“Promise. We’ll be here until you wake up.”

“And after that?”

Grantaire clears his throat gruffly. “Yeah. After that, too.”

“Okay. Then, that’s all right.”

Courfeyrac feels Enjolras relax on his chest. It’s flattering to be trusted this much. He feels like he’s been chosen. “We’re with you,” he says, echoing Grantaire. “Don’t ever doubt it. We’re with you every step of the way.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply. His breathing is already starting to even out, and Courfeyrac can tell that he’ll soon be fast asleep. Precious angel. Courfeyrac gently tangles his hand in his golden curls and kisses the crown of his head. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Tomorrow’s a new day, and I promise, we’ll be together to see the sun rise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Hang On Little Tomato" by Pink Martini, which is an adorable song and makes my day 150% better whenever I listen to it.  
> [tumblr](http://synchronysymphony.tumblr.com)


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